


The Origin is You

by agoodpersonrose



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Based on a song, Catholic Guilt, Happy Ending, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, No Actual Homophobia, Patrick Brewer loves David Rose, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, The Brewers Love Their Son, gay clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodpersonrose/pseuds/agoodpersonrose
Summary: Looking back, Patrick thinks that meeting David; that first touch of flesh against flesh. That may have been the closest thing to religion that he has ever felt.A look into Patrick’s relationship with his Christianity.
Relationships: Clint Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Marcy Brewer & Patrick Brewer, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Patrick Brewer/Rachel
Comments: 49
Kudos: 128





	The Origin is You

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the fic in general is based on the song 'Origin of Love' by MIKA. I really advise looking at the song lyrics or listening to it but that is completely your call. 
> 
> There is more written in the endnotes about the reason I wrote this, and some explanation of my meaning.

The moment that David walked into Ray’s home-slash-office space, all straight white lines and expressive looks, it was over for Patrick.

It was a moment that would go down in history. The feeling of David’s hand in his, the spark of familiarity, of _oh, there you are, I know you, I’ve been waiting for you to find me._ Patrick hadn’t thought it was possible to feel so much connection after a single meeting, but he knew whatever he was feeling, he had to pursue it. He couldn’t let it slip through his fingers.

Looking back, Patrick thinks that may have been the closest thing to religion he’s ever felt.

***

_“Sweetheart, we’re going to be late for church.”_

Patrick takes one more look at his reflection in the mirror. The tiny blue suit and pink bow tie which was the high point of his seventh birthday party, has now been delegated to his Sunday best. He scowls, already predicting the pinched cheeks and tugs at the tie that his relatives and family friends will be doing shamelessly as soon as they arrive at the small church around the corner.

The routine of his week. The drilling of prayers by the old man in the funny dress. The off-pitch singing of overly-confident villagers.

Patrick just hopes his Dad will let him go out on his bike afterwards. It’s a new one, another gift from his recent birthday, and it goes so fast that Patrick feels like he could fly off the face of the earth if he could only find a ramp big enough.

“Patrick? What is taking you so long, come on, son, your mother’s wearing the carpet down with all her pacing,” his Dad’s voice appears closer than Patrick had been expecting as he sticks his head around the doorway.

He grins when he sees Patrick stood on his tip toes, balancing precariously on the stool in front of the mirror.

“Ready?”

Patrick nods sombrely and puts the stool back in its proper place, meeting his Dad in the doorway, who reaches out and squeezes both cheeks painfully.

“He-ey, stop!” Patrick complains, batting his hands off and ducking his head.

“Better that they’re already a little numb before the droves descend on you,” Clint replies, clapping his shoulder and leading him towards the stairs with a merciless grip. “Come on, if you’re good through church, I’ll take you out on your bike this afternoon.”

Patrick wiggles all the way through the service. It’s not his fault; the seat is wood, and it made his bum go numb within the first opening prayer. Then Patrick spotted his friend Lucy on the other half of the room and waved at her only for her Dad to glare in return for distracting her from whatever story was being told. Patrick doesn’t understand why; they’ve heard these stories a _million_ times already and they are always just as sad as the last time.

Marcy is looking at him with disappointment as they exit the cool stone church into the blazing heat of the sun. She pulls him out of the way of the crowds, into the shadow of the intimidating building, and crouches to look him in the eye.

“Now, Patrick, I know you better than that. Where is my usual sweet boy behaviour? You were a nuisance!”

Patrick immediately pouts and pulls away from her hands. “I didn’t do it on purpose!” he exclaims, his tiny brows furrowed in frustration.

“I know, sweetheart but you’re usually so good! What happened?”

“I just don’t understand why we have to go to church. Now it’s too hot to go on a bike ride, and you won’t let me out later because it will be dinner time, so I’ve missed my chance!” Patrick complains, tugging at his shirt collar with childlike fury.

“We go to church because it’s the right thing to do,” Marcy says firmly, batting his hands away before he can do real damage to his tie. “Because it’s important to show thanks to God for everything he has done for us, and because it offers us a moment of reflection to think about what’s really important in life.”

“I don’t see why God would care if I skipped church and went to ride my bike.”

Marcy frowns disapprovingly at him and shakes her head. “There’s a lot of beauty in religion, Patrick, but there is also sacrifice. You’ll understand that one day. Now, I won’t hear you complain about this anymore. Let’s go and find your father and get you something to eat.”

***

It’s less than a week into Patrick and David’s burgeoning new relationship when the problem of sacrifice rears its ugly head.

They are in the back room, against the wall, making out heatedly after a day filled with meaningful looks, and discreet euphemisms which had gotten them both riled up enough to shut the store early.

David is moaning; he’s thumbing at the skin just above Patrick’s jeans, digging it in between the fabric and Patrick’s stomach, and tugging slightly, a clear signal of what he wants. And Patrick wants it too, so he nods, and reaches up to reconnect their mouths, sweeping his tongue in a hot glide.

“Fuck--” David gasps, pulling away to tip his head back and offer Patrick a canvas of skin to dig into. “Oh my _God._ ”

Patrick pauses, and his stomach drops.

David doesn’t seem to have noticed, leaning back in to press wanting kisses to Patrick’s cheekbones, down the rough stubble of his jaw to below his ear.

“Can I--?” he murmurs seductively, bringing his hands to the front of Patrick’s jeans and running the back of his fingers against the belt buckle.

“I--”

David pauses, waiting for verbal confirmation, though he doesn’t seem concerned that it won’t come. He’s smiling fondly, and his fingers are drifting up and down, just a teasing breath of movement against the straining fabric.

“I- David, stop- No, wait--”

Immediately, David pulls back, his arms up in the air in front of Patrick’s face as if seeing that they are away from his body will make him feel better. Patrick feels the loss immediately, and a part of him begs to reach over and pull David back; chase those carnal desires no matter the consequence. But he can’t get over this sickened feeling in his gut, that he is somehow doing something wrong.

Patrick lets out a frustrated sigh and heads over to the small couch by the opposite wall.

“I’m sorry,” David says softly, sitting next to him, though still refusing to touch him. Patrick can’t blame him, feeling his own skin crawling with self-disgust. “You said you wanted to go slow and I- I want to respect that, I want to respect you, and I really didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“No, David, it’s not that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I- I wanted that, I _want_ that, I just--”

“What?” David asks, then with a more teasing tone. “Don’t tell me it’s Catholic guilt.”

Patrick looks up and catches his eye, a helpless expression on his face.

“Oh, it _is_ Catholic guilt.” David’s voice isn’t appalled or disgusted, not even disappointed. It’s _sympathetic,_ and that fact alone shocks Patrick more than anything.

“I’m so sorry, David. God, this is so pathetic, I don’t even- I’m not part of that whole- you know. I just, I can’t shake this feeling that I’m doing something wrong, by letting myself enjoy it--”

David’s hands are back on him again, though to placate this time, rather than to rile up. His hands rub Patrick’s arms, and his lips find his shoulder, pressing firm kisses to the bone there.

“You aren’t doing anything wrong,” he whispers. “You’re allowed to enjoy it- enjoy sex, with me. Or with anyone, you know, I’m not- you’re not limited to just- me.”

“But I want it, with you. So much that it feels--”

“Sinful?”

Patrick snorts. “How do you know all this?”

“I dated a priest once. Well, I say dated, it was mainly--” David makes an inelegant gesture with his hands where he would usually just say the words, and laughter bubbles up in Patrick’s chest at the very idea of David limiting his language for _his_ benefit.

“Fucking?”

“Mhm, a _lot_ of fucking.” David’s smile is bright, and carefree, and Patrick can’t help but lean in to catch it with his mouth. “I just want you to be aware--” David mumbles between kisses, “That this is- 100%- on your terms- and that we- we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“It’s okay, David. I know what I want.”

***

 _Patrick has never quite understood the appeal of churches._ His parents love them, and he understands the beauty of the architecture. The history contained within the walls. The cool reprise from a hot day in the sun.

But his parents have always gone quiet when they’re in church. Found some unattainable peace in the very presence of the messages.

His Mom particularly.

Patrick is 17 years old, attending the wedding of one of his many cousins.

His Mom keeps shooting him furtive looks. As do all the other family members in the room, and he can only attribute it to Rachel’s presence beside him.

It itches his spine, the looks, the assumptions. The joy they seem to take from the very idea that Patrick might soon be following in their well-trodden footsteps. The well-worn path of marriage and parenthood.

Rachel seems to hate it too, though for entirely different reasons.

“It’s just the misogyny of it all. All I am to them is a future Mrs Brewer; a womb on legs, ripe for the plucking!” she exclaims to him in a hushed tone as they linger in the shadow of the wooden doors, unwilling to step out into the sunshine just yet.

“Ew,” he mutters in response, screwing up his nose.

“Right! Like, they don’t even care that we might have different ideas,” she gets nervous then; twitchy. “We do have different ideas, right?”

“Of course,” Patrick agrees.

“I swear to-- _Hi!_ Lovely ceremony, wasn’t it? We’ll be right behind you! -- If one more of these old women looks at my stomach then I am going to upchuck the contents of it onto their disgusting hats.”

“You have my full support,” Patrick says sombrely, smiling just slightly when she squeezes his hand.

“There you are Patrick! They’ve been looking for you! The photographer wants a shot of all the Brewer boys!” Marcy arrives in a flurry of blue and white, her bob bouncing on her shoulders as she approaches with eagerness. “Though of course, hopefully we will soon have an extra member for the girls shot,” she adds, winking at Rachel.

“Oh, I don’t know--”

“Aren’t church weddings just lovely? I have always been so fond of our local parish as well; we’re very lucky to have such a beautiful church so close to home.”

“Mom- _Mom!”_ Patrick finally interrupts. “Where do they need me for the photos?”

***

When Patrick thinks of beauty now, he thinks of the curve of David’s lips when he smiles at him across their store. He thinks of the heat of his touch, in stolen moments in the back room, and in Patrick’s car on a side road on the drive back from Elmdale.

Beauty isn’t hidden in the old scripture droned at him on a Sunday morning. It’s in the inflections of David’s voice as he rants at clueless customers about the importance of proper skin care.

Stained glass windows have nothing on the bursts of sunlight coming through the Apothecary windows, casting patterns onto David’s face as he stocks up the shelves, and the dust particles dancing in the air around him.

Though Patrick can recognise now that there is beauty outside of the physical.

He’s in the Roses motel room, waiting for David to get ready for their weekly ‘special’ date night. The night assigned to meals in restaurants with more refined menus and aesthetics, and clean, spotless tables.

David is making a fuss about his appearance, so Patrick has been banished to the Rose parents’ room, currently empty, and eerily silent. He paces the floor a few times, wondering if his choice of the usual jeans and blazer can be considered as underdressing, when they catch his eye.

A line of three, silver, gold, and a deep copper. All the familiar ‘t’ of the cross, on Moira’s dressing table. They’re simple, so different to the usual Rose decadence. Patrick stands over them, staring at them with an unfamiliar sense of disconnect.

He hasn’t called his Mom in a while.

Patrick startles when the motel door swings open, and the Rose matriarch herself enters the room.

“Oh, hello, I see this room is already occupied. Did I perhaps enter the incorrect number seven?” she asks, rapping her knuckle on the door, her eyes sparkling like a cat finding a mouse already caught in a trap.

“Oh, I was just- David is getting ready, and he doesn’t want me to see him before he’s- you know.”

Moira nods slowly and approaches him. “I see something caught your interest while you lingered?” she says, nodding towards the necklaces Patrick had been staring at.

“It’s nothing, I just- my Mom has this one. The gold one, she never takes it off and I was just--” he trails off, uncertain of where to go from there.

“I gather your relationship with your parents is not quite to the standards one would desire? David has never mentioned it, but I can only assume that, since I have never been introduced, that there is something lacking there?”

Patrick smiles bashfully and shakes his head. “Not at all, Mrs Rose. I have a very--”

He trails off, because does he have a good relationship with his parents? The parents he once saw several times a week, at _least,_ and now he can’t remember the last time he took his mother’s calls.

“I fear I may have hit a nerve,” Moira asks, with uncharacteristic concern.

“What’s happening in here?” David emerges from his own room in a flurry of cologne, and a _very_ tight black sweater.

“Nothing dear, Patrick and I were simply confabulating on this week’s events.” Moira covers, sending him an indiscreet wink of support. "Now, I believe you have a booking to make, and that outfit deserves an audience.”

David preens under the compliment, although he is still shooting worried looks in Patrick’s direction. He seems to have made the connection with the necklaces, as his face softens, and he holds out a sympathetic hand.

“Shall we?”

***

 _Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever seen his mother looking so distressed._ He throws the last of his suitcases in the back of his blue sedan and turns to look at her.

“Are you sure?” is all she asks, having gone through this conversation far too many times before. “Are you sure this is what you want. What you need? Because we can work it out, whatever it is, if you just explain to us--”

Patrick shakes his head firmly, and slams the boot closed with finality.

“I know, I just- I need to do this,” he says, softening at the last minute as he looks at his parents, on the edge of his family home. His father’s hand on his mother’s shoulder, both of them looking lost and confused. “It’s not because of you, it’s because of me.”

“I know dear, I just- I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

He considers climbing in the car without any more words spoken, but his mother’s tear-filled eyes force him to hesitate, and backtrack up the drive to them. He slots himself into her arms, taking the last breath of comfort in her embrace, the smell of her perfume, and the tickle of her hair on his neck. He’s surprised to find his own eyes burning as he pulls away.

“Will you take this?” she asks, pulling his hand towards her and pressing a small silver necklace into his palm. “It’s St Christopher; for a safe journey.”

He screws his mouth up, half wanting to repel the symbol and push it away. Instead, he nods, and tucks it safely into his jean pocket, claiming it as a representative of his mother’s love, rather than the burning eyes of the religion that he’s rejected.

“I’ll look after it for you.”

“I know you will.”

Patrick turns to his father and claims a similarly tight embrace from him, reaching up to clasp his arms around his shoulders. “Look after yourself, son. You’ll be in our prayers, you know that?”

There’s nothing Patrick can say to that, so he doesn’t. He sucks his lips into a thin line and nods, turning on his heel and heading back towards the car.

When he crosses the horizon, he finds none of the second guessing he had been expecting. The road is clear, and straight, and for the first time, Patrick can see a light at the end of it.

***

David has always been curious about these things. Religion, and Patrick’s understanding of it. It takes a few years for him to explicitly ask, however.

They’re lying together in bed, in the apartment whose lease will soon be coming to a close, and which Patrick is hoping not to need to renew. If the proposal goes his way, he won’t, and they will find somewhere else. A fresh start in a new step of their lives together.

It’s dark, and the rain is spattering outside the window, and neither of them are asleep. David shifts over onto his side to face Patrick, who turns his head just slightly to catch his eye.

“Do you believe in God?”

Patrick lets out a long breath.

“I mean, I know you’re not religious I just- I was wondering what you _personally_ thought, with being brought up religious, and everything,” David is stuttering now, nervously. Constantly afraid of hitting the wrong nerve and blowing it all up, but Patrick just shakes his head and looks back up at the ceiling.

“I think,” he says, with emphasis, after he’s let the question sink in. “That there are some things that I am happy not to know.”

David’s impressive eyebrows are furrowed and lacking comprehension. “What does _that_ mean?”

“I guess- I guess the short answer would be no. I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe our life is planned ahead of time, and I don’t think that there is some Great Plan _,_ or Divine Intervention, or that anyone is out there listening to us.”

“Why?”

Patrick turns his head back and smiles slightly. “I just can’t place it in my head, that there would be so much suffering, and for what? To teach us some divine lesson? It doesn’t make any sense to me, and honestly, if the God I was taught about at school does exist I- I have no interest in being associated with him.”

“I’m sensing there is a ‘but’ coming.”

Patrick waggles his eyebrows and David goes to shove at his chest, but Patrick just catches his hand, lacing their fingers together and resting them against his stomach.

“ _But_ ,” he continues with a teasing grin. “I don’t know. I don’t think any religion I have will ever be any more than wishful thinking. We all have to believe in something, don’t we? Well, I like to believe I have put my faith in something a little bit more reliable.”

He keeps his gaze on David, on the source of his faith, making his silent point clear. David’s dimple pops out even though his answering smile is small, and Patrick shuffles over to press a kiss into the crease there.

***

Patrick’s mother has been ecstatic ever since they broke the news of the proposal.

She had cried tears of joy for her only child, immediately planning the wedding in her head. Placing herself in Patrick’s narrative and for the first time, it not being obtrusive.

His mother’s joy just adds to his joy. Patrick recognises how lucky he is. How blessed he is, if he were to put it into those terms, to have his family be so accepting, and celebratory of the life he has chosen.

There was a moment, in the silence at the café, where he thought his story would be a different one. He put his faith in David to be by his side no matter what happened, but he has to admit that the fear of his parents rejecting him ate him up inside.

Which is why he is so surprised by his mother’s next question.

“Will you be coming home to get married, or have you found a new church nearby? I never thought to ask!”

Patrick freezes.

“Oh.”

“I don’t suppose there is any lack in churches around you, are there?”

“Um, Mom. We’re not getting married in a church,” Patrick finally chokes out. David grabs his arm and squeezes, tight, reminding him of his presence; that he isn’t alone in this anymore. “We haven’t chosen a venue yet, but--”

“Oh, Patrick, but you always wanted to get married in a church,” Marcy’s voice is full of sympathy. Patrick watches on the small phone screen as his Dad murmurs something not quite audible from their end.

“Well, you know--” he tries. But she doesn’t. “We just decided that since neither of us is particularly religious, that we would get married somewhere else.”

Mhm, there are some lovely stately homes in the area,” David takes over. “And there is a haikuist in Elmdale that I have had my eye on for a while who could officiate.”

“What?” Patrick blurts out with a surprised laugh, thankful for a reason to smile again. “How long have you had your _eye_ out?”

“It’s always best to be prepared, honey,” David demurs, rubbing his shoulders comfortingly.

“Well, I suppose whatever is best for you,” Marcy gives in, nodding, though her smile is strained. “I’m sure no matter what you do, you’ll make it beautiful.”

“Yeah, I think we have that covered,” Patrick murmurs, looking straight at his fiancé.

***

_O My God, I believe in Thee; do Thou strengthen my faith._

_All my hopes are in Thee; do Thou secure them._

_I love Thee with my whole heart; teach me to love Thee daily more and more._

_I am sorry that I have offended Thee; do Thou increase my sorrow._

_I adore Thee as my first beginning; I aspire after Thee as my last end._

_I give Thee thanks as my constant benefactor._

_I call upon Thee as my sovereign protector._

The familiar prayer rings out across his old family church. But this one has a distinct difference. He sees these words, but he is not absorbed by them. They don’t needle their way down into his chest and set root or make him feel anything more than a recognition of old traditions.

Of a religion he has left in his past.

Or at least, tried to.

Next to him, David squeezes his hand tightly and gives him a soft look, full of adoration, out of the corner of his eye.

His mother spots the move and gives them a knowing smile as she speaks along with the prayer. She is just thankful he had agreed to come to the Sunday service at all. Patrick had resisted, claiming it unfair to ask David to attend, and lose one of the three days they have to visit Patrick's home town. In the end, he had relented, supported by his husband, and far too desperate to make his mother smile.

David and Patrick’s side of the pew remains auspiciously silent.

He is unwilling to join in the celebration of a God he simply does not believe in. Of a religion that kept him in its tight knuckled grip for far longer than he would have liked.

But he sees the beauty now. Now that David is here with him. Maybe he sees that.

***

Patrick will never regret his and David’s decision to stay in Schitt’s Creek, to buy their house and invest in their store and build their life together. He is the happiest he’s ever been in their simple routine of domesticity. Knowing that no matter what, David will be there at the end of the day, filled with derision for difficult customers and soft looks of adoration as they settle in for the evening, wrap themselves around each other and rest easy.

That being said, there is something special about being in New York. A trip focused on the aim of visiting Alexis shifts; it’s a much-needed break from the well-meaning blindness and accidental prejudices of small-town folks.

They can hold hands in the street, without thinking twice about other people’s eyes. They can kiss when they greet, and when they part, and sometimes just because. They can see people who look like them, loving fearlessly in the street, living their lives in public. It’s not the life either of them wanted for themselves, not in the end, but it truly is a luxury.

“I think we should go to a gay club tonight.” It’s David’s idea, but it’s one that Patrick immediately latches onto.

“Oh yeah? One of the ones you used to go to?”

“No, a new one. One for just us,” David replies, looking up from his phone. Alexis’ apartment is empty, with her working a late shift with a new client, giving them the opportunity to do whatever they’d like. “There’s one here called _Eden_.”

“Eden?” Patrick asks, his throat feeling unnaturally tight.

“It’s not--”

“I know. I think that’s a great idea.”

David’s smile is blinding as Patrick moves over to push his way into his husbands’ lap, enjoying the way David’s body brackets him and holds him close. “Really?”

“Really.”

They get dolled up; David in his classic black leather jacket, and Patrick in a much more tasteful (though still incredibly tight) short-sleeved button up. At the last moment, David convinces Patrick to let him sneak into Alexis’ make up chest and steal some silver shimmer. He adorns it to Patrick’s face with a cheeky smirk, kissing the route along his cheekbones and then covering the area with glitter till he’s sparkling more than the stars.

They slip out of the taxi and into the club, the sound of cars crashing through puddles on the sidewalk distracting from the booming base of the music from the whole street.

David insists on downing some shots before they are finally in the centre of the dance floor. The press of sweaty, anonymous bodies barely registered when his husband is so close, looking so good, and so _happy._

It’s only after a few moments that the lyrics really register with Patrick, and he stops stock still in the middle of the dance floor as they sink in.

_Like stupid Adam and Eve, they found their love in a tree,  
God didn't think they deserved it.  
He taught them hate, taught them pride,  
Gave them a leaf, made them hide,  
Let's push their stories aside,  
You know the origin is you._

And there is David, grinning crookedly, his face lit up by the flashing rainbow lights which cover the club. Suddenly Patrick is struck by the way they remind him of the stained glass windows of his youthful Sundays.

This Sunday, he isn’t squirming under the teachings of a man he doesn’t know.

He’s basking in the love of a man he _does_ know.

David tilts his head, a silent check in, a promise of safety, and understanding, and love. Patrick smiles back, and David relaxes, leaning in to wrap his arms around his shoulders and pull him close.

Patrick goes easily, unwilling to feel the low simmer of guilt that he thinks will always remain at the tip of his senses. Ever since he first heard the old tale; of two lovers, and a garden, and a romance that was shunned by the mightiest of powers. Of knowledge that was considered dishonourable, of nudity that was considered shameful, of understanding that got them barred from paradise.

Who needs such a religion, when Patrick’s origin was always here? It was always, _David._

He dips his head and presses it into the crease of David’s neck. It’s sweaty and overheated from the dancing, and the press of the bodies on the dance floor, but Patrick breathes it all in.

He found his faith _here_ , no matter what the stories say.

What could ever be sinful about that?

_You’re the Origin of Love._

_Thank God you found me._

**Author's Note:**

> This is based solely off my own experiences which are truthfully blurry. I didn’t have the same upbringing as I have given Patrick in this fic; it was my grandparents who were religious, rather than my parents who are atheist. It was an agreement with them that I would attend church when I was younger, however my Grandpa died when I was 10, and my Grandma’s religion died with him. 
> 
> A lot of the things I talk about in this story are a mish mash of my Grandparent’s Catholicism, and my Church of England education (I know that this doesn’t really apply to Patrick’s Canadian family, which is why I have kept some of the details vague). But I have also studied scripture in school and in my degree, in particular the Origin story and the figure of Eve, which is why this song, and this idea stuck with me for so long.
> 
> Concerning David’s beliefs, I don’t know enough about Jewish religion to comment on it, so I have left it as unspoken as possible. I mention that he isn’t particularly religious but if someone has any ideas about his connection to his own religion, I would love to read it, but wasn’t in a position to write it myself.
> 
> Lastly, this is completely self-indulgent, and a reflection of my own rejection of religion, largely influenced by my immediate family’s atheism, and my queerness. Not all queer people follow this path, and I am in awe of anyone who does otherwise. I think religion is a complicated and personal thing and this is in no way a judgement of anyone else’s belief. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed and please let me know what you thought in the comments! ❤️


End file.
